


A Wider Circle

by LunaMoth116



Series: A Wider Circle (The Circleverse) [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Friendship, Gen, Mage Origin, Mage!Sherlock, Mages, Male Friendship, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Templar!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:58:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaMoth116/pseuds/LunaMoth116
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some circles can't be broken, but they can grow. John Watson was always a dutiful templar who never gave much thought to those he was guarding in Kinloch Hold, till the sudden exile of one and a surprising encounter with another leads him to change his ways of thinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wider Circle

**Author's Note:**

> _Because no one else seems to have done it, so why not? *g* Hope you enjoy!_   
> _Dedicated to my dear friend Stef, a fellow Swooper and Johnlocker, and my snarker-in-crime; between the two of us, no work of fiction stands a chance – not even our own. (Thank goodness!) Without her, this story (and universe) would likely never have seen daylight._   
> 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** _I would gladly sign my soul over to the creators of_ Sherlock _and/or_ Dragon Age _in exchange for even a sliver of ownership. Maker knows all they need is my signature at this point. ;P But at the moment, I do not own these characters or concepts, nor do I profit (financially) from their use._

 " _Never, never rest contented with any circle of ideas, but always be certain that a wider one is still possible."_

_~ Richard Jefferies_

 

John Watson was bored.

It was his usual daily shift in the Senior Mage Quarters on the Circle Tower's second floor, and the one he always looked forward to the least. In the past hour he had seen a grand total of three people pass his way – two mages and a fellow templar. One had nodded, one had glared, and the third had given him a small, nervous smile before rushing off. Other templars would not have minded the solitude, using the time to pray, meditate, or simply enjoy the peace, but John had never liked being left alone with his thoughts.

Demons from another realm were the plague of mages, but John was beginning to wonder if the demons in one's own head were the greater threat.

He stared at the impassive stone walls, wondering what stories they might tell if they could speak. Round and round they went, in an unbroken circle that never changed, never grew. He shut his eyes for a few seconds, feeling the walls close in, the weight of thousands of years pressing in on him. There was a time when he was once as stoic and silent as they, distancing himself from the lashings he had to administer, deafening himself to the screams, steadfastly ignoring the mages' tear-stained faces and the scarlet splashing across the stone tiles. He would have steeled himself to the sight of mages crumpling like discarded paper under his smites. He would not have been unnerved by the passionless tone and placid smile of a newly Tranquil, whose blank stare would somehow sear as vividly as the sunburst brand marking the severance of their connection to the Fade.

After many years of faithful service, that man was long gone. Sometimes John didn't want to know where he was.

John blinked rapidly, gripping his sword, forcing his eyes to stay open, attempting to push the fog of sleep deprivation from his brain. He tried to remember the last time he had slept through the night. Knowing it had been a long time – weeks, if not months – didn't make him feel better, but trying to pin down the exact time was a diversion, however minor.

The hall was deceptively quiet; in late afternoon, most of the students were either in class, having a late lunch, or studying. Yet John knew if he were to set foot in any classroom, quarters, or the dining hall, the room would be alive with chatter, and not about the usual mundane subjects. No, the Circle's latest gossip fodder was a young, newly Harrowed mage named Arya Surana, as she had been since her unceremonious expulsion just two days prior.

John shook his head, grateful for the distraction as he briefly drifted to the memory of surprising the young woman and her two friends when they emerged from the basement. Duty had called, and John Watson, as always, had answered. He hadn't looked forward to smiting them, if it came to that, but a mage who wanted his phylactery destroyed had to be stopped. Next thing he remembered, he and his fellow templars had been knocked on their backs, rendered powerless in a crimson spray, in one of the most terrifying moments of his life. He shuddered, recalling the stinging burn, the taste of iron and salt, and not knowing to whom the blood belonged.

John didn't think much of Jowan or Lily, apart from an occasional mention in his nightly prayers; Jowan was a dangerous traitor who John could only pray would be stopped, and Lily was a misguided soul who had thankfully had the grace to accept her punishment with dignity. Yet he couldn't stop thinking about Arya.

He had not known her at all, only as a polite, quiet, and studious mage who had often been seen in the company of Florian Aldebrant, or whatever he was calling himself these days, but had mostly kept to herself and out of trouble. Which was why it had been such a shock to discover her aiding Jowan in escaping the Tower, though it was clear she had been equally stunned to learn that he was a blood mage. Numb, she had barely reacted when the Grey Warden Duncan had conscripted her.

John bit his lip, recalling all too clearly the young woman in blood-spattered robes, the deep red marring the gold-trimmed grey blue, her reward for completing her Harrowing. There had been talk of her having the potential to become a senior enchanter one day, certainly an unexpected destiny for an elf whose only major distinctions were her dewy grey eyes, the tattoo decorating the right side of her face, and insatiable curiosity.

Such a waste, some had said, and to a certain extent he agreed. But perhaps the Maker had something greater in mind for her. He almost wished he had known her as someone apart from just another mage, who had accepted her fate with a calm demeanor belied by frightened grey eyes.

He automatically reached for the flask on his belt, twisting off the top without even a glance, and took a few sips of the brilliant blue liquid sloshing inside, taking comfort in the familiar icy sting as he swallowed.

There was nothing quite so unsettling as having your only memory of someone be of them betrayed, alone, terrified, and soaked in someone else's blood.

Echoes down the corridor interrupted his thoughts. He looked up, feeling his head clear as the faint sound of footsteps drew closer. A mage, most likely, given the lack of clanking a templar's boots would have produced.

He was right. Moments later, a man clad in black swept around the corner. While his walk was determined, his step was light, his black boots making almost no noise as they trod across the tiles. He was tall and angular, his black robes swishing softly against long limbs, yet carried himself with remarkable grace. As he came closer, John saw a neutral expression on the man's face; he was looking straight ahead, not even giving a glance or nod to John as he passed. John's gaze flicked down to black-gloved hands, long fingers cupping...something...small and white?

John would never know what made him call out. Nothing about the man's manner was strange or suspicious; he had just come from the direction of the stockrooms, and John sensed nothing untoward in the object he was carrying. Yet something unexplainable possessed him to call out, “Er, excuse me?”

The mage stopped suddenly, in what would have been a comical jerk to a halt for anyone else, but with him was instead a natural ceasing of motion, as if he had been expecting to stop right there all along. He turned toward John, expression still indifferent. “Yes?”

John was momentarily struck by the mage's voice, every bit as deep and polished as his appearance would have suggested, before he spoke again. “May I ask what it is you're carrying?”

“It is a skull.” The answer came in the same tone John might have heard had he asked, “What falls from the sky when it rains?”

“Oh.” An awkward silence fell for a few moments before John found his voice. “Could – could I see it, please?”

The other man raised an eyebrow. “Is there any reason I shouldn't be carrying it?”

“Is there any reason you should?”

“A fair point, I suppose.” He crossed the few paces separating them, removing his left hand from the top of the object to carefully cradle it in both hands. “It has no magical properties, as I'm sure you are aware. You may double-check, if you like.”

John nodded, knowing what he said to be true. He peered down at the object; it was indeed a skull, thankfully not human, likely belonging to a small animal. “Where did you get it from?”

“I obtained it from Owain, who in turn received it from the Wonders of Thedas, I believe. I requested it some time ago, and he was happy to oblige. As happy as the Tranquil can be, at any rate.”

John thought he detected a hint of bitterness in that last statement, but made no comment. “May I ask what you need it for?”

“It is for an experiment.” The authority with which the mage spoke told John he didn't need to ask any further questions. Aside from the fact that it was the duty of the senior enchanters, and not the templars, to vet and oversee any non-academic experiments, John had the feeling the mage knew what he was doing – or at least thought he did.

“I see,” he replied lamely.

In the short silence that followed, John was able to get a better look at the mage for the first time. His complexion was near-perfect, the translucent-pale skin unmarred save for a few lines around the eyes, highlighting a strong jawline and finely cut cheekbones. His fingers, their pale tips visible at the ends of the gloves, were as long and oblique as his limbs, making John think of carved runes. The black of his softly curling hair was just a shade or two lighter than that of the robes he wore, which gleamed with silver weavings of lyrium, trimmed with bright gold and a deep azure that matched the long scarf around his neck, which paled only in comparison to the man's eyes. His irises were vividly, impossibly blue, of a rich hue John had only ever seen equaled by the liquid in the flask he was still holding.

“Is there anything else?” The mage's question cut through John's thoughts. It was not impatient or brusque, but dismissive, as if to indicate he had much more important things to do than stand around having an awkward staring contest with a templar.

John blinked, feeling as if he had been woken from a dream. “Uh, no. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt anything you were doing. It's just – there aren't a lot of people around at this time, and I'm on duty here for another few hours.”

“And yet you seemed to have occupied yourself well enough with deep thought when I came by. A strenuous exercise for most, I know.”

“Maybe,” John said, slightly annoyed. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“You were thinking of our recent departure?”

“Was it that obvious?”

The mage's eyes rolled upwards disdainfully. “There has been no other topic of conversation around this tower for the past two days.”

“It's just so strange,” John mused.

“Her aiding her 'friend' in a fool's errand and her fortuitous rescue from his inevitable betrayal?”

“No. Well, yes, but that's not what I meant,” John murmured, ignoring the condescension in the other man's tone. “Until two days ago I don't think even a quarter of the tower knew who she was, and now her name is the only thing on everyone's lips. I knew who she was, but she was always just another mage to me. It almost makes me wish I'd gotten to know her better.”

He wasn't sure what was making him confide these thoughts to this near-stranger; perhaps it was that most of the templars wouldn't have been interested, or a subconscious need to try to see this man, too, as more than just another mage.

“And what would you have liked to know about her?” The silken baritone interrupted John's brief introspection.

John gave a short laugh as he raised the flask in his hand to his lips. “More than you could tell me, I'm sure.”

The other man began to speak with almost a fluid carelessness. “She was raised in the Denerim alienage until her powers manifested at the age of six, after which she was brought here. Her father, a Dalish elf, abandoned her before she was born and she has never known him. Her mother died when she was sixteen, the same year she acquired the tattoo on her face. She specialized in the School of Primal Magic, with an inclination towards spells of the earth.” The mage's eyes met John's, seemingly oblivious to the stunned expression on the other man's face. “Do you wish to know still more?”

John recovered long enough to swallow his mouthful of lyrium potion and shake his head. “No...at the moment I'm more curious as to how you knew all that. You were friends with her?”

The other man made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough. “Until two days ago I did not even know her name.”

John frowned, not noticing the faintly amused quirk of the mage's full lips. “Then how in Andraste's name did you...? Had you ever seen her before?”

“Occasionally. We had the odd class together before my Harrowing, but we never spoke. I happened to be just outside the quarters when she and her accomplices were confronted; I was looking for two apprentices who had promised me some help. During the ensuing commotion, I entered the room and had a few moments to observe the three of them, which told me more than enough.”

John wondered how this man could have escaped his notice, but would be the first to admit he was not particularly observant, feeling even less so at this moment.

“Until then, she had never interested me before.”

John nodded. “All right. But I still don't understand – how did you know? What did you see?”

“I didn't see, I observed. As a Fereldan elf, there are only a few places she could have originated from – an alienage, or a Dalish clan. Given the Dalish's secrecy as well as her lack of anti-human hostility, the latter was highly unlikely, supplemented by slight imperfections in her facial tattoo indicating the artist's lack of experience, something a Dalish artist would have had plenty of. She made a comment about losing her first tooth shortly after coming here; six is the age when permanent teeth begin to erupt. When she was caught, she was carrying a book about primal magic. She dropped the book and it fell open to a section on earth spells; that chapter was obviously well-read. She asked Irving to notify Valendrian, the current leader of the Denerim alienage, of her conscription, and did not mention her mother or any other family. Given the close-knit nature of alienages, Valendrian would likely inform them regardless of their relationship, unless, of course, her mother is dead and she has no other family.”

John nodded, slowly digesting the information. It wasn't an unusual background for a mage by any means, especially an elven one, but the manner in which it had been ascertained certainly was. “And that stuff about her father? How did you guess that?”

The mage looked somewhat offended. “I did not _guess_. I _deduced_. On her left ring finger she wore a silver band engraved with elven writing, the secret of which is known only to Dalish Keepers. Scratched and slightly dull, so not new. Slightly too large and a thick, wide band typical of men's rings, so not a child's, and not made for her, nor customized by her. Worn on her finger, taking up valuable space, though any magical benefit would likely not equal that of rings she could obtain here. She bore her stave in her right hand; the ring was not worn on her dominant hand, decreasing the likelihood of wear and tear. A man's old ring she has not made her own, worn largely for sentimental reasons, that could only belong to an adult Dalish elf – there can only be one explanation fitting all those facts: an absent father of whom all she has is his ring, the last remnant of the life he abandoned for her mother.”

_But not for her_ , John thought sadly. Aloud, he asked, “And his leaving before she was born?”

“Shot in the dark. But a good one. She obviously treasures this possession of her father's; she would feel even more strongly about any gift from him especially for her. Yet she neither wore nor carried anything visible fitting the necessary criteria – of the appropriate age, made to her specifications, and that could not have been obtained here. No gifts from her father, not even a baby gift, suggests no relationship.”

The clinical manner in which the mage delivered this final pronunciation was a little disconcerting to John, but he shook it off. “And you're sure about all this?”

Again, the mage looked somewhat put off. “Her friend Finn confirmed all my deductions not half an hour ago. Not that he was particularly pleased to do so.”

Somehow that wasn't difficult for John to imagine. “Even so, what you did – that was incredible.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, of course! You saw no more of her than I did, and yet you figured out her life story.”

The mage tilted his head, nodding thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. You were there, as well.” Somewhat to John's disappointment, he continued, “That's not the normal reaction to my telling people about themselves, or even about strangers.”

There was something different in the mage's tone, but John decided to think it over later. “Oh? What do they usually say?”

“' _Tace atque abi!_ '” the mage replied. “'Piss off!', if you're not familiar with Arcanum. The less advanced ones tend towards coarser language.”

John smiled at the wry humor in the mage's tone, before he realized there was still something unaccounted for. “What about the tattoo, and the year her mother died?”

“Now that was mostly luck. I recalled that four years ago, a mutual acquaintance mentioned he had suggested my name to a sixteen-year-old elven apprentice who was looking for a tattoo artist; while he didn't mention her name, he did tell me her reason was that her mother had just died and she wanted something commemorative. To my knowledge, she was the only female elven mage in this tower who bore a tattoo that she obtained _after_ arrival.”

“And she turned you down?”

The mage's distinctive features twisted into a slight smirk. “According to our acquaintance, her immediate response was along the lines of, 'I _don't_ think so. Who's the second best choice?'”

John allowed himself a quick chuckle, since the mage seemed equally amused by the story. “Well, she knew one more thing about you than I do.”

“And that would be?”

“Your name.”

“Ah.” To the other man, this seemed to be a trifling detail, as if John had just said he didn't know the color of his socks. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“And mine is John Watson.”

“Well met.” The perfunctory smile curved Sherlock's mouth again, and John wasn't sure whether to be flattered or insulted, though he smiled in return. “Now, as pleasant as our little chat has been, you'll have to excuse me. I'm meeting an apprentice in the laboratory within the hour and I need to prepare some things before then.”

“Of course,” John replied with a nod. “Well, thanks for the talk.” _And for letting me get to know you a little_ , he added silently. “Perhaps I'll see you again here?”

“Undoubtedly. This is where I live.”

John might have been imagining it, but he was sure Sherlock sounded vaguely pleased by that notion. “I'd tell you more about myself, but I'm sure by this point my name was the only thing you didn't know about me.”

“Perhaps.” The gleam in Sherlock's eyes was unmistakable. “Though there may be something else I know that you do not.”

“Oh? What's that?”

“Your lyrium dependence is psychosomatic.”

John's eyes widened. “I beg your –?”

“You'll have to excuse me. Afternoon.”

And with a rustle of robes, he was gone.

John stood frozen long after the echo of Sherlock's footsteps had faded. He barely tasted the quick gulp of potion he took, didn't feel the familiar tingle in his veins as he slipped the bottle back into his belt.

Psychosomatic? What could he possibly mean by that? All templars needed lyrium to maintain their powers; this was a well-documented fact. He was only dependent on the substance because he _had_ to be.

Wasn't he?

_No matter_ , John mused. _I can ask him about it next time_. Hopefully next time wouldn't be too long from now. He made a mental note to check the roster for this floor and see about possibly swapping a shift or two.

Who would be the next mage he saw that day? Would he or she be human or elven? Where had they been born? How old were they when they came to the tower? What did they study? What could he learn from only a glance? As much as he would have preferred to learn about the mages by talking with them, he was well aware that wasn't always a viable option, if one at all. But if he wanted to see them as people, he could start by _seeing_ them as he never had before, as people whose lives were on display in ways they might not even realize themselves.

If it weren't for Sherlock, he would never have seen that.

For the first time in a long time, John Watson had something to be excited about. And though he had only his thoughts for company for the time being, he was far from alone.

He looked around with bright, eager eyes. Maybe it was his imagination, or the lyrium, but in the last few minutes, it seemed the stone walls had grown just a bit wider.

**Author's Note:**

>  _So here's basically how this idea came to me – naturally, my muse decided to pop in while I was showering, because she rarely appears when it's convenient:_  
>  _Muse: “Hey there!”_  
>  _Me (washing my hair): “Oh, hi.”_  
>  _Muse: “You know, wouldn't it be cool if there were a_ Sherlock/Mass Effect _crossover?”_  
>  _Me: “Yeah, I guess so. Sherlock could be a biotic or scientist, John would of course be a soldier, and they could be on Shepard's crew, if not necessarily part of the main story...”_  
>  _Muse: “So how 'bout it?”_  
>  _Me: “Eh, I don't think so. I love_ Mass Effect, _but I'm not really comfortable writing for it."_  
>  _Muse: “What about_ Dragon Age, _then?"_  
>  _Me: “Yeah, there's an idea! Sherlock could be a mage, John could be a temp...hey! I don't have time for this! Get back here!”_  
>  _Muse: “Too late! Can't unthink it! See ya!”_  
>  _Me: “You little...!_ Fine. _I'll just have to write it, then.”_  
>  _So, yeah...if anyone wants to tackle that_ Sherlock/Mass Effect _crossover, be my guest! And please let me know if you do – I want to read it. ^_^ (ETA: Since writing this, I have found some good crossovers - some of which are even better than my idea, IMO - but all of them are either short one-shots or DOA. If I find, or someone alerts me to, a good, long fic, I'll happily link it!)_  
>  _Thank you so much for stopping by; knowing that you took even a little bit of your time to give this a try means more than you'll ever know. :)_  
>  _Incidentally, if you're interested in seeing a story about my Surana herself, you can check out my stories “Virtue” or “The Warden's Rest” (though be warned that the latter has a minor spoiler for later events in this series, though it's a standalone piece)._  
>  _OK, shameless plug is shameless. ^_~ Thanks again for reading, everyone! :)_  
>  _Further thanks to Jeremy Soule, for composing the absolutely stunning “Skyrim: Atmospheres”, which the majority of this was written to. Even if you don't know_ Skyrim, _give it a listen. I guarantee you won't be disappointed._


End file.
